


never find a girl like you

by evewithanapple



Category: Rock 'n' Roll Highschool (1979)
Genre: F/F, LLF Comment Project, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 22:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13397124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: Kate Rambeau decides she needs to find herself a boyfriend.Things don't go exactly as planned.





	never find a girl like you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gwenfrankenstien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenfrankenstien/gifts).



It’s at the beginning of junior year, just after her sixteenth birthday, that Kate Rambeau decides she needs to get herself a boyfriend.

There’s nothing special about the experience of dating that appeals to her: it’s more to do with the principle of the thing. Kate has lived a very carefully structured life thus far, everything divided into appropriate categories and paced according to her personal timeline. The concept of a boyfriend was an anomaly in her plans: she knew she should do it _some_ time, she’d just never been especially clear on when. (Or, to be honest, why.) But when junior year starts, and all her classmates – girls she’s known since first grade, most of whom have dated casually before now – start earnestly discussing who’s going to take them to prom, or who they plan on going out driving with now that they’ve got their licenses, Kate realizes that the deadline has crept up on her without her knowledge or consent. She’s more than a little annoyed with herself for not preparing better: now that she’s in a time crunch, she’ll have to rush the process. Kate doesn’t like to rush.

(Among their social circle, Riff is the only anomaly: she has no boyfriend, nor does she seem especially interested in finding one. But she doesn’t count. She’s saving herself for Joey Ramone. If she _wanted_ a boyfriend, she could undoubtedly find one, and that’s the salient point. And besides, Riff has always been an outlier: unlike Kate, the concept of ad-libbing her goals actually seems to work for her. Kate can’t understand it, but she can respect it, even if it means being Riff’s friend is a bit like being best friends with a small tornado.)

Having to do things on a short deadline always stresses Kate out, and so she resorts to her most reliable calming technique: creating a chart. She draws three columns, one labelled NAMES, one labelled ATTRIBUTES, and one labelled AVAILABILITY. She ignores the first and the last for the moment, concentrating on the middle instead. Before she picks out specific boys, she’ll need to decide what she wants from them. So what does she find attractive in a boy?

Kate leans back in her chair, chewing contemplatively on her pencil eraser. Now that she’s actually sitting down the make the list, she’s realizing that she doesn’t actually know what she likes in boys; she’s never paid them enough attention to find out. What constitutes “liking” anyway? Finding them nice to look at? Well, that’s out: she’s never found her gaze lingering on any of the boys she goes to school with, except possibly when one does something very stupid (like Kevin Soles, who set off a small explosion in science lab because he ignored the teacher’s instructions to not mix acetone with hydrogen peroxide.) All right then, she has no personal standard of attractiveness: are there any objective ones? What boys do the other girls find attractive? She casts her mind around for a popular candidate, can only come up with Burt Reynolds, and writes “hair (?)” down in the ATTRIBUTES column.

There has to be _something_ more than this. She chews on her pencil with renewed ferocity, and feels the eraser break off under her teeth. Frowning, she fishes it out of her mouth and tosses it in the garbage. What about mouths? Mouths are nice. Like when Riff puts on bright red lipstick that makes her mouth look bigger and poutier than it is, and Kate tells her she looks nice (because it’s true) and Riff blows kisses at her and says _voulez-vous_ (the only French word she knows) and Kate giggles. She does like that. She’s not really sure it would translate to boys – would she like a boy in lipstick? – but she writes “nice mouth” down under ATTRIBUTES. That’s something, then; is there anything else about Riff she likes? That particular line of questioning yields a rich vein of answers, and by the time she’s done, the ATTRIBUTES column is full. That just leaves NAMES and AVAILABILITY, which, she realizes quickly, poses a far greater problem. She’s going to need a second opinion on this one.

* * *

 

“A _boyfriend_?” Riff repeats, pulling a face. “What do you want a _boyfriend_ for?”

Kate shrugs. “Just because, I guess.”

“That,” Riff says, “is not a very scientific answer. I expected better from you, Kate.”

Kate shrugs again. She doesn’t _have_ a scientific answer to Riff’s question, which bothers her more than she’d like to admit. The vague drive to do something about her dating life has yet to solidify into actual visions of what Kate-with-a-boyfriend would look like, and she finds the ambiguity of it irritating. Maybe she should think of it more like an experiment: the goal is to see what happens, not create a predetermined outcome. But even when she experiments, she usually has some idea of what she’s trying to accomplish. This just feels . . . blank.

“Never mind,” she says. “Can you think of anyone or not?”

Riff picks up the chart and scans it, pursing her lips. Kate thinks again of her list: _nice mouth_. Riff’s not wearing lipstick today, but her mouth remains as nice as ever. That kind of thought probably isn’t helpful. If she’s thinking about her list in terms of her best friend – who she is _not_ dating – then surely the list is going to fail her when it comes to people she actually _will_ date?

Maybe. Possibly. The though prickles at her, like an itch she can’t scratch.

“None of the guys we go to school with,” Riff says finally, tossing the paper back down. “Why would you want to date one of them, anyway? They’re all so boring.”

“As opposed to who, our teachers?” Kate wrinkles her nose. “Who would you rather date, Mr. McGree?”

“At least he’s musical.” Riff says, though she pulls a face. She sits back against the headboard of the bed, crossing her legs in front of her. “Why not wait for an actual cute guy to come along? At least then you’re not settling.”

“What, a cute guy like Joey Ramone?” Riff tosses a pillow at her, and Kate dodges, laughing. “You think a cute guy like that is just going to roll into town and ask one of us out?”

“It could happen!” Riff protests. Kate raises her eyebrows, and she relents a little. “Or we could go out and _find_ them. Think about it! A road trip all the way to California, where all the big rock stars are . . .”

“Where all the big bad guys are, too,” Kate says. Her mother’s been beating that drum her whole life: how the West Coast is populated end to end with dope fiends and sex murderers and scam artists. She’d probably have a heart attack and drop dead on the spot if Kate announced she was road tripping to California, Riff or no Riff.

Riff reaches out with her long, skinny arms and snakes them around Kate’s waist, pulling her so that she’s half-seated in her lap. “Are you scared of the big bad wolves, Kate?”

Kate scoffs. She’d pull away, but she kind of likes sitting like this, even though Riff’s knees are poking her in the side. “Not even.”

“Then let’s _go_!” Riff nearly shoves Kate off the bed in her sudden burst of exuberance. “No more pencils, no more books! We can even rent a van to sleep in on the way. It’ll be amazing.”

It’s difficult, sometimes, to follow Riff’s train of thought. She barrels from subject to subject with the enthusiasm of a runaway horse, and about as much subtlety. “Weren’t we just talking about my list . . . ?”

“Forget your _list_!” Riff scrambles to grab both of Kate’s hands in hers. “You won’t need a list in California! There’ll be cute guys everywhere, and we can both meet musicians – real ones, not like Mr. McGree – and then we’ll start our own bands.” She looks thoughtful. “Are there any married couples in bands together?”

“Um,” Kate says, feeling the conversation spin rapidly out of her control again. “The Partridge Family?”

“Eugh!” Riff pulls another grotesque expression, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue. “Never mind. We don’t have to get married to anybody. It can be just the two of us in our own band.” She dangles backwards, the ends of her hair brushing the floor. “Who needs boys when you’ve got music?”

Kate giggles, propping herself up on her elbows and looking down at where Riff hangs off the bed. “ _Hello world, here’s a song that we’re singin’_ ,” she sings, “ _c’mon, get happy_. . .”

Riff pulls herself upright enough to throw another pillow at her. “That is the grossest thing you’ve said all afternoon,” she says, “and you started by coming over here and talking about _boyfriends_.”

“ _A whole lotta lovin' is what we'll be bringin'_ ,” Kate sings, mostly for the purpose of annoying Riff more. Riff lunges at her with a squeal, and they both topple over the side of the bed, Kate’s list drifting, forgotten, to the floor.

* * *

 

Riff, Kate decides, is clearly not going to be any help. That leaves Option #2, which Kate had largely hoped to avoid.

“A _boyfriend_!” Eaglebauer says. He beams at her from across his desk, while Kate squirms slightly in her chair. Something about Eaglebauer’s smile always makes her feel _weird_ , and not in a fun way. “Are you looking for a rebel? A leather jacket type? Or how about a football player, with those big broad shoulders? Or a lean, mean, track star? Or-”

“Um,” Kate says, already feeling overwhelmed. “I hadn’t really considered . . . sports. I was thinking more about shared interests? Personalities?”

Eaglebauer slumps slightly behind his desk, like Kate’s disappointed him. “The boys are always easier,” he mutters to himself. “They all know what they want. Breasts! Big breasts for everyone! Even the weirdos who prefer feet, I can handle. But these girls, they want personalities to order-”

“Um,” Kate says again.

“The _specificity_!” Eaglebauer says. He squints at her across his desk; the room is slightly smoky, and it’s hard to see properly. “What is it you’re looking for, then? A nice guy? Aloof? Energetic?”

Kate takes out her chart and smooths the paper flat against her knee. “I made a list,” she says, hoping she hasn’t come on a fool’s errand. “To help narrow it down, I mean. In terms of character, I’d like a boy who-” She pushes her glasses up her nose and looks down at the list. “- is silly, sweet, makes me laugh, cares about what I have to say, knows when to give me space but also when I need company, musical, energetic, and has big plans for the future.”

Eaglebauer stares at her.

“And it would be good if he had a nice mouth,” she adds. “And hair.”

Eaglebauer just keeps staring. She thinks she may have broken him.

“. . . or I could try dating a track star?” she says.

She doesn’t get an answer. Instead, Eaglebauer reaches over and plucks the list from her hands, scanning it with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. He looks at it for a long moment, while Kate tries to keep from squirming again. Then he lets out a long sigh and drops the paper. It flutters out of his hand and lands on his desk. “Look,” he says. “Sweetheart-”

Kate tries not to bristle at the endearment, and almost succeeds.

“-you seem like a nice girl,” he continues. “But I feel like you don’t really . . . _understand_ what it is that I do. You see, I’m in the business of making connections. Drawing lines between people who know what they want, and just require the means to achieve it.” He sits back in his chair, fingers tented. “The trouble is, they have to already understand what it is they’re looking for from me. Do you know what you’re looking for, Kate?”

Kate blinks, saying nothing.

“Here,” Eaglebauer says, handing back her list. “Give this some thought and come back to me when you’ve made a decision.” Then he nods to his secretary, and Kate finds herself being strong-armed out of his office before she can muster a response.

Option #2: apparently even less helpful than Option #1.

* * *

 

“Kate, could you set the table please?”

“Of course, Mom.” She’s already halfway there, in fact: the plates and glasses are already in place. She just has to set out the utensils. Across the table, her little brother is already seated in his chair, kicking restlessly at the table legs. “How come we have to have quiche again? I hate quiche.”

“Because it’s Mom’s favourite,” Kate says, taking a small amount of satisfaction from ladling an extra-large helping onto his plate. “And she’s the one who made it, so she gets to pick.”

“If she loves it so much, why doesn’t she _marry_ it?” her brother says, and sniggers. Kate sighs internally. “Why don’t you marry it” has recently become her brother’s favourite expression, and she’s really hoping it loses its appeal more quickly than the last one. “Don’t get bent out of shape” had lasted for nearly six weeks.

“Thank you, Kate,” her mother says, and sits. “Jimmy, don’t complain about your dinner. Children are starving in China, you know.”

“I’d rather starve than eat this,” Jimmy says with a pout, but he still loads up his fork and takes a bite. Kate chews on a mouthful of her own, trying not to grimace. Her mother really isn’t a very good cook.

“So,” Mom says, after several minutes of muted chewing sounds, “what are your plans for the rest of the evening? Is your homework done?”

“Almost,” Kate says. She reaches for the salt shaker, hoping to disguise the taste of the pineapple in the quiche. What had possessed her mother to put pineapple in a dish with turkey? “I’ve got my English paper to finish, but the only thing left to do is proofread it. And there’s a science assignment, but I was going to take that one over to Riff’s and work on it with her.”

Her mother sighs. “Wouldn’t you be better off working on it without any distractions?”

Kate swallows another unappetizing mouthful. The salt isn’t working so far; maybe she needs more. “It’s not a distraction, Mom,” she says. “I’ve already got all As in science. I’m just helping Riff catch up.”

Her mother sighs again. It’s her favourite method of communication, besides notes taped to the fridge. “I just wish you had friends who were more serious about your education, that’s all. Riff’s a nice girl, but she seems very . . .” She pauses, apparently looking for the right word. “Giddy,” she finishes finally.

“She’s not giddy, Mom.” Kate picks up the salt shaker again. “She’s just enthusiastic. Besides, she’s my best friend. We’ve been friends forever.”

Across the table, her brother erupts in a noise that is either a cackle or a snort. Or both. “If you like her so much, why don’t you marry her?”

Kate freezes, salt shaker suspended in the air over her plate. A tiny avalanche of salt is landing on her plate, quickly turning into a saline snowdrift, but she doesn’t notice until her mother says, “Kate! The salt!”

“Oh!” Kate jerks, dropping the salt shaker. It lands on the table and rolls over the side, landing on the floor with a _thunk_. Kate’s mother picks it up, fussing at Kate for being so absent-minded, but Kate barely hears her. Her head is spinning.

_Why don’t you marry her?_

_Do you know what you’re looking for?_

_What do you want a boyfriend for?_

“Um,” Kate says, “excuse me.” She shoves her chair back and gets up from the table. “I just realized I forgot – um, I need to – I’ll be back by curfew,” she finishes lamely, and runs for the door. “No fair!” her brother howls behind her, and her mother starts to say “Kate-“ but she’s out the door and down the street before either of them have a chance to move.

* * *

 

“Riff,” she says, bursting through Riff’s bedroom door, “Riff, I need to talk to you.”

Riff glances up from her bed, startled. She has music sheets spread out in front of her, each one covered in blue ink notations. The neck of her guitar is leaning against the side of the bed, and the air is perfumed with the faint scent of hashish. Riff says she always writes her best music when she’s a bit buzzed. “Sure,” she says, “go ahead and talk.” She squints. “Is this about science class? Because I forgot my textbook at school – “

“No,” Kate says, “no it’s not about science class.” Now that she’s here, she’s having a hard time catching her breath. She takes several seconds to do it, and tries to catch up with her own thoughts as she does so.  She’s realizing, belatedly, that she didn’t plan out what she was going to say. Very unscientific of her.

“Well?” Riff asks, after a minute ticks by. “What’s up?”

Kate takes a deep breath. “I don’t want a boyfriend.”

Riff’s forehead creases. “Is that all?”

“No, I mean – “ Kate crawls onto the bed, disrupting Riff’s sheet music as she does it. Riff yelps in protest. “I don’t think I ever want one. I don’t think I even like boys, that much. They’re boring, and ugly, and – and their mouths are too small.” She takes another deep breath. “And I want to go to California with you, and I don’t think I’d be any good in a band, but I can find a job doing – something – I don’t know. Something science-y. I’ll figure it out later.” She grabs Riff’s hands, squeezing them. “And I want to rent that van and sleep in it while we’re on the road. I even want to meet the Ramones with you.” She pauses. “But I don’t want you to marry Joey. Or even date him. He has a bad haircut. Your hair is much nicer.” Riff’s hair is up in a ponytail, just now. It occurs to Kate that she’s never seen Riff with her hair entirely down. She thinks if it went untamed, it might just grow and keep growing until it devours an entire city block. “And I want to see you with your hair down,” she finishes lamely.

Riff smiles. She pulls one hand free of Kate’s and reaches up to her head, pulling her scrunchie free of her hair. Sure enough, it explodes in a dirty blonde cloud around her head. She blows a few strands out of her face. “There,” she says. “No problem.” She pauses. “Was that all?”

“No, I-” Kate stops, stammering helplessly. She didn’t make a chart for this. She doesn’t know what to do. Nothing in her textbooks gave her a road map for this. “You – remember that book you gave me, about the singer? Janice something?”

Riff squints at her. “Janis Joplin?”

“Yeah, her!” Kate wills her heart to slow down. It doesn’t obey her at all. “There was that woman in the book, her friend – her girlfriend? Peggy something?” She takes one last deep breath, squeezing Riff’s hand tight. “I want to be – the Peggy to your Janis Joplin. Or the, um, Cherie Currie to your Joan Jett. Or – “ She scans her memory for more examples from class. “The Alice Toklas to your Gertrude Stein. The Vita Sackville-West to your Virginia Woolf. The – “

“Kate Rambeau,” Riff says, a slow smile spreading across her face, “and you asking me to be your _girlfriend_?”

Kate feels herself blush to the roots of her hair. “Um,” she says. “Yes?”

She doesn’t know what to do next, how to follow up on asking your best friend to be your girlfriend like you’re in some kind of – some kind of book set in someplace far away, light years removed from the here and now of their mundane, prosaic lives. But Riff has never been mundane or prosaic a second in her life, so it’s no surprise that _she_ knows what to do: she leans forward, crossed knees bumping against Kate’s, and kisses her. It’s not a hungry kiss, but it’s not really chaste either. It’s a first step. An experiment, maybe. And Kate’s pretty sure she knows how she wants this experiment to turn out.

Riff pulls away, still smiling. Kate knows she’s smiling too, wide and goofy and uninhibited. “So,” Riff says, “California?”

“ _We had a dream we'd go trav'lin' together_ ,” Kate sings. This time, instead of throwing a pillow at her, Riff kisses her again. She’s wearing lipstick, and some of it sticks to Kate’s mouth. This, Kate thinks, is everything she wanted on her list – and better than she ever expected.

**Author's Note:**

> Kate is singing the theme song to The Partridge Family ("C'mon Get Happy") It was popular in the seventies, and is exactly as corny as you're imagining.
> 
> The Janis Joplin biography mentioned is Myra Friedman's "Buried Alive," which was first published in 1973. It actually says some not terribly complimentary things about how Joplin's sexuality was a result of her bad childhood and drug use, but - it was the seventies. Baby lesbians had to take what they could get. Anyway, enjoy [this photo](https://fi.pinterest.com/pin/ATRzd07vLpJPNmsrQ4pyFzYqIBvKLpQtnpOwvdGz85DCtQjIQdkjzTg/) of Joplin and Peggy Caserta together.
> 
> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
> Feedback
> 
>   * Short comments
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> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta) 


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] never find a girl like you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13704483) by [gwenfrankenstien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenfrankenstien/pseuds/gwenfrankenstien)




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